Nature Boy
by georgethecunt
Summary: It was a long while before John's voice sounded again, softly and angrily, a whisper in the heavy silence that pressed around them. "You let him win. You betrayed me." "No."Sherlock's voice was loud and seemed to echo through the stillness. "I saved you."
1. Chapter 1

John sat on the bench, eyes fixed on the paving slab in front of him. After staring at them regularly for three years, it was as if the pattern of faded greys and muddy whites was seared into his memory. These few slabs; the last place he'd seen him. He chewed his lip, the familiar ache in his chest almost humming as memories started to flood through the dam he had built against them, on the suggestion of his psychiatrist. People avoided walking over this particular patch of pavement now. They avoided the bench as well. Never once had anyone sat next to him, whilst he sat here, remembering.

He rubbed his hand over his face and shook his head almost imperceptibly, lifting his gaze to watch the cars, buses and bicycles rushing past him on the road ahead. He groaned and fixed his gaze on the paving slabs once more, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees, his chin on his hands.

With a sigh, he let his eyes flutter closed, his mind roaming through the memories he so often supressed. He supposed he was allowed to remember, today, of all days. How could life just carry on around him? He cursed softly. How had everyone given him up for a fraud so easily?

Pushing the memories back down inside him, along with his feelings, John leant back in his seat, eyes still shut. All he had wanted was one more miracle. Sighing heavily again, and leaning forward to pick up his bag from the floor, John opened his eyes.

Someone was standing on the paving slab, their highly polished shoes taunting him. He looked up, a sharp reprimand on his lips, but his indignation faded away on his lips, turning to horror.

It was Mycroft.

"_You_." His voice cracked and broke, emotion coursing through him. It had been 2 years since he'd seen Mycroft and there was a reason for that. His arm twitched at his side and he shook his head.

"No, no." He stepped around Mycroft, whose cold face was set as he regarded John with somewhat sorrowful eyes. "No. I told you… Just get away from me. Don't come to see me."

Mycroft spun on the spot and caught his arm. "John. Don't"

But John has wrestled his arm from Mycroft's grip, his mouth set in a firm line. "How _dare_ you come here?"

Mycroft shook his head, but as he went to speak John growled in frustration and anger and started to walk away, away, away, anywhere but here, anywhere away from Mycroft and the memories that pressed around him, heavy in the air and threatening to suffocate him.

"John. I come here too. To remember."

John shook his head, ignoring the curt clipping sound of Mycroft's steps as he followed John along the pavement.

"I lost him too, John." Mycroft's voice was plaintive and whiny, barely distinguishable above the noise of life going on around them, but John heard him. He hissed, pent up anger bubbling in his chest, as he whipped around and strode back towards Mycroft until they were so close he was sure Mycroft could feel John's angry, heavy breaths on his face.

"You _sold_ him to the _devil_. You have no right, _no right_! _No_ right to come here and even attempt to tell me _you_ know how I feel." John gripped his face with his hand, turning and stepping a few steps away but changing his mind, turning again and pushing Mycroft's chest with an accusatory jolt of his finger. "As if you mourned for him at all. You never cared for him while he was _alive_. If you had even loved him a little, he would still _be_ alive."

Mycroft was trying to say something, but his pathetic excuses were just whispers and John cast them aside with disdain, as he had everything Mycroft had said to him in the past three years.

"If it wasn't for you, he would _still be here_." John's voice was barely more than a hiss, his features twisted into anger like he hadn't felt in years, spitting the words out as if they were poisoning him, as if the hate and anger for Mycroft was burning his mouth and he had to push them out of him. "You took him away; you stopped his brilliance, you… You betrayed us." Tears were threatening to spill from his eyes. He turned curtly on his heel, military instinct helping to carry him away before that all-consuming paralysing pain returned to him. Why had Mycroft come to see him? Today. The anniversary. It was too much to bear.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Sixth months later.**_

He hesitated before rapping his knuckles against the cold wood of the door. As he waited, his stomach knotted into tense coils, he chewed his lip. When Mrs Hudson had called earlier, asking him to come over and talk to her, he had been sure something was wrong. But now, he thought, it would probably turn out to be a pain in her ankle, or just a wish to have John back in the house… To have things a little like the way they had once been.

With a creak, the door opened and Mrs Hudson appeared, her eyes twinkling, though whether with happiness or sadness John could not be sure.

"Hello, dear, come in, come in." She ushered him inside, rubbing her hand on his arm and smiling supportively.

"Mrs Hudson, what is it you needed me for?" His heart was racing, being here, this close to the flat. He hadn't been back since 6 months after the funeral.

Mrs Hudson's brow furrowed, "No need to worry, dear, just head on up to _his_ room and I'll meet you in there."

John clenched his fists, his mind screaming protestations. "You… You want me to wait upstairs?"

She smiled softly, "Yes please, I'll be right up with some tea." She bustled off into the kitchen of her flat, muttering under her breath angrily. John caught the words 'lying' and 'never again'. He bit back the questions pushing to escape his mouth, the first of which would have been 'Can I leave now?"

He stepped towards the stairs, slowly, one foot in front of the other, bracing himself for the barrage of emotions that he knew were about to floor him.

At the top of the stairs, he paused, gathering his strength around them, saying quietly to himself, "It's been a long time, John. He's gone. Gone."

With a deep breath he pushed the door open, stepping into the doorway. The room was dark before him and yet he couldn't smell any dust. He flicked the switch, but the light seemed to be broken. It definitely didn't seem as if the room had been uninhabited for 3 years, but perhaps Mrs Hudson had been cleaning it up here. She had told him that Mycroft had requested Sherlock's flat be left exactly as it had always been. That was why John had moved out. He just couldn't deal with being there, in these rooms. He would have felt as if _he _was going to walk in at any point, rambling theories and waving frozen body parts, shouting about cigarettes, wrapped only in a bed sheet. John shook the images of _him_ from his head and swallowed noisily.

The layout of the flat was still muscle memory to John and he navigated his way through the room with ease, crossing the darkness to the window. He threw back the curtains and turned to face the room, prepared for the onslaught of emotional pain.

"Holy fu-" John staggered back grabbing at the curtain for support, which sent it crashing to the ground, curtain pole banging loudly as it clattered to the floor. After the noise, silence rolled through the room, echoing against the walls and reverberating around John's skull, like a loose cannon ball in the belly of a ship out at sea in a storm. The pain John had been expecting had absolutely nothing on this. John lurched almost drunkenly across the room, his heart pounding; blood racing like Niagara Falls in his eardrums. He clasped an arm across his stomach as if he was trying to hold himself together and slowly straightened up, taking a deep breath to steady himself before he could make any further movement. He closed his eyes for around 30 seconds, hoping, for some absurd reason, that when he opened his eyes, Sherlock would be gone.

But there he was. Sherlock Holmes. He was standing stock still, arms behind his back, wearing the same blue suit as always, his curly hair still as black as coal, his eyes glittering in the sunlight that now shone on him. His face was different, though. Different because he… He looked nervous. Worried. Sherlock's eyes searched John, taking in every tiny detail, regarding him with the sort of expression one gets when first seeing a baby, or seeing a long lost relative.

John could feel the anger, indignation and betrayal boiling in his stomach but decided to let it simmer for a while, simply feasting his eyes on the sight of his friend, finally returned to him, there in front of him, in the flesh.

He stepped forwards, not allowing any hesitation or any nerves to show themselves through the armour he was mentally wrapping himself in. Sherlock should watch out. In the last three years, John had learnt to hide his emotions to a degree that even Sherlock would find hard to read.

Walking slowly, but steadily, forwards, John reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock's chest. Sure enough, he felt a dull pulsating beneath his hand; Sherlock's heart, still beating.

He groaned, turned away. Too much. Today would not be the one where his new skills of concealing his emotion were needed. So many emotions were coursing through him that he couldn't think, all he wanted to do was scream and shout and get away from here, away, away, away.

He heard Sherlock make as if to speak, but before the sound could become words, John had whipped around and punched him, as hard as he possibly could, in the face. Sherlock staggered back into the door, but he didn't cover his face, standing straight again so that when John brought his other fist to collide with the other side of Sherlock's face, he took the full brunt of John's anger again, staggering once more with a slight moan, but still making no move to resist John, no move to stop him from pushing and punching him. John felt the anger bubbling inside of him again. Why was he not fighting _back_? Why was he not _saying_ anything? With a strangled curse John launched himself at Sherlock, pinning him against the wall, his body pressed against Sherlock's, pinning him in place. One of Sherlock's arms was caught behind his back, against the wall, but John grabbed the other and held it in place above Sherlock's head.

"You died."

Sherlock shook his head, minutely, his eyes staring straight into John's, as if they were trying to figure out his soul, figure out what he was going to do next.

"You left me."

John's voice sounded different this time, broken and hurt. Sherlock wriggled indignantly, still unsure if he should speak. The heat of John pressed against him was too much after so long apart, the moulding of their bodies against each other was too much, too soon, but yet too little, too late. Sherlock felt, rather than allowed, a small groan to whisper between his lips as John leant his face close to Sherlock's, his eyes burning a hole in Sherlock's resolve, he already knew that if the chance arose he would break his promise to himself that he would not allow this to happen. Not after so long. 'How would that be fair to John,' he had asked himself. But here he was, an inch away from his face. Sherlock could smell his cologne, that familiar smell that he had spent so long remembering over the past few years.

It was a long while before John's voice sounded again, softly and angrily, a whisper in the heavy silence that pressed around them. "You let him win. You _betrayed_ me."

"No." Sherlock's voice was loud and seemed to echo through the stillness. "I saved you."

John let out a sound that was something between a snarl and a whimper, pushing himself away from Sherlock, taking two brief steps away, running a hand through his hair and taking a shaky breath in.

"Explain."

Sherlock stepped forward, tentatively. He felt cold and lonely now that Watson had stepped away from him. He sighed. John. Not Watson, John. It had been too hard since his 'death' to call John by his name. So he'd called him Watson. It had made thing easier. Helped him to keep up the façade that everything was okay and he didn't miss his old life at all. He struggled with himself for a second, pushing the emotion out of his voice, straightening his face and putting his arms behind his back, standing tall as if he had anything to be proud of. He cursed his thoughts and stepped forward once more.

"He would've killed you, John." His voice wavered on John's name and he shrank back against the wall again as John turned to face him. "I had to do _something_."

John's face twisted into a sneer, his eyes full of what looked scarily like hate and Sherlock's heart thudded loudly in his chest as he considered the possibility that John wouldn't want him back in his life.

"John, he had me cornered, I had to do it. It was all I could do. I had to save you."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's Note: This takes prevalence over my biology coursework, obviously. And my French oral. So I hope you're all enjoying it! I don't know how far I will take this. I have about 4 possibilities. So yeah, any suggestions will be considered. Thanks! O. x**_

That evening. Sherlock.

Fingertips together, tapping against his lips, Sherlock sat in his chair by the mantelpiece, staring at the skull, still sitting there. It seemed to stare back at him disdainfully, saying 'you deserved it'.

He scoffed quietly. He could hear Mrs Hudson shuffling around downstairs. The poor woman had had to bear some of the brunt of John's shock today.

As the thought of John crossed Sherlock's mind again he felt his heart pound a little harder, but he shook the feeling off and continued to ponder the afternoon's events.

John had been furious, his temper not allowing him to wait for Sherlock to explain properly. He'd flown off the handle, pushed Sherlock up against the wall 4 times, punched him 3 times and slapped him. Sherlock thought over John's aggression. When John had felt threatened, he had pushed him against the wall. He'd wanted to trap him, make sure Sherlock couldn't fool him again. Sherlock shook his head; eyes almost rolling at the fact John considered himself to have been made a fool of. He sighed, turning his mind back to analysis. John had punched him when he was angry, when Sherlock had said something he thought insufficient. But the slap... Sherlock stood up abruptly and walked over to his violin case, pulling it out and beginning to play, eyes cast out of the window on the moon.

The slap was different.

_Sherlock was standing stiffly, the rage John was inflicting upon the room starting to worry him. A nagging voice at the back of his mind was whispering, telling him that John was going to leave him, like he, Sherlock, had left John. _

"_I was here the whole time. Had you come back, I'd have been here. I was waiting for you."_

_John's face went white, stark white, his eyes narrowing, bringing his hand to slap Sherlock around the face, hard, leaving a large red patch on Sherlock's cheek. Somehow the slap hurt more than the punches, the pushing, the words. Sherlock staggered back and John stormed past, thundering down the stairs. Sherlock listened, standing in the doorway, a hand to his cheek, as John berated Mrs Hudson for keeping Sherlock's secret from him. Mrs Hudson was trying to soothe John, but John had had enough. His voice rose to the highest volume it had reached until that point; he screamed curses at both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock before storming out of the house, the door slamming behind with a deafening bang and leaving the house feeling abruptly empty._

_Sherlock had staggered across the room, his legs suddenly weak underneath him, collapsing into his chair. Normally a comfort, the chair simply served to remind him of everything he had lost, as he sat and looked at John's empty chair opposite him. _

Sherlock had remained sitting in that position in his chair for hours, staring at John's chair, at the skull, at his belongings. He turned from his new position at the window, violin in hand, breaking off in the middle of a melody line to press his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. He groaned softly and shook his head. This was ridiculous. John should be pleased, if John came back from the dead after saving him, Sherlock would be…

Oh damn, he'd be angry. He'd be furious. More furious than he could ever imagine being at John in normal circumstances. He turned his mind back to the funeral and how upset John had been at the grave, when he thought no one could see him. He ran a slightly shaky hand through his hair and chewed on his lip, his mind racing as he considered how he would feel in John's current position.

He sighed and crossed to sit in his chair again; launching into Bloch's Suite No2 for Solo Violin. His brow furrowed. Sherlock, a man of few emotions- that was how he was seen, he knew that. He understood why. But he had feelings. He just didn't know what to do with them, didn't know how to handle the fluttering in his stomach or the aching he used to feel when he watched John going about his daily life. Not that he'd done that often. As that would be creepy. Obviously. With a frustrated, strangled noise he broke off the tune and threw his violin onto John's chair.

Crossing his legs, he sat again in his thinking position; fingertips together, tapping against his lips, which were pursed in concentration.

He had said that he had been waiting for John. That was when John had slapped him. Whatever offence those words had caused, it had had such a profound effect on John that he'd turned pale. Sherlock chewed his lip softly, his mind systematically scanning the possibilities in his mind, trying to make sense of one of the only people in the world who had ever managed to confuse him.


	4. Chapter 4

It felt as if Sherlock had thought that John hadn't deserved to know.

That was all he could focus on as he paced his flat, a hand still cast across his stomach, as if trying to hold himself together. He couldn't quite stomach the fact that Sherlock had lied to him.

It was different from all the other lies Sherlock had told him, all the fabrications and false truths that Sherlock had spun him. This was a monumental lie. A selfish, evil lie.

He had allowed John to spend _3 years_ struggling to exist, barely clinging to his sanity. He had _allowed_ John to suffer.

He'd left John to his memories, his endless thoughts and remembrances of Sherlock; left him to spend hours each day making sure he forgot nothing, replaying in his mind Sherlock's rare laughter, his deep musical voice, his quirks, his… his everything.

Sherlock had taken everything from John. Sherlock had lied, manipulated and stolen John's life away.

John groaned softly, collapsing face first onto the sofa, his arms crushed underneath him as he breathed heavily into the cushion, trying to ignore the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

The only thing John could focus on besides the pain was the feeling that had flooded him when he reached out and touched his hand to Sherlock's chest. That warmth- that steady, thudding heart beat that had pressed against John's palm.

Sherlock was alive.

He gasped, his breath catching in his throat again as the tears dribbled down his cheeks and he reluctantly gave in to the relief that he had been holding out against since the first sight of Sherlock. Waves of relief and a dizzying ability to finally breath again crashed over him.

No, John. He pushed himself up, wiping his hands vigorously across his face, attempting, to no avail, to reclaim his composure. He had to think logically, rationally and calmly. Like Sherlock would.

He sighed and leant back on the sofa, so he was sitting with crossed legs on the sofa, his head leant on the sofa back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Sherlock had left him, lied to him… but had he betrayed him? John felt the anger coursing through his veins again and let his breath out in a huff of frustration. Yes, yes, Sherlock had betrayed him. But had he meant to?

He chewed his lip, recalling Sherlock's inability to see how things would cause people offence, along with his misunderstanding of human relationships and his inability to comprehend love. Perhaps he hadn't known that… No, a voice inside John's head screamed at him. No, of course he knew. He knew and he did it anyway. He probably watched you grieving, without appreciating it or caring and didn't intervene to save your sanity, he simply let you waste away 3 years of grief and pain while he went off doing whatever it was that Sherlock had been doing since his 'death'.

How had he managed it? Living without being noticed when he drew so much attention to himself… A cold, hard realisation hit John in the stomach like a sledge hammer. _Mycroft_.

The anger, hot and fiery, was coursing even faster now.

Mycroft had known. Mycroft who'd been so comforting for the first few months, who'd often written to John to check on him, knowing that John couldn't bear to see him in person, Mycroft who had tried to speak to him, so recently.

John got up abruptly, pacing the room quickly, his mind racing. Mycroft was a lying bastard but he didn't matter. What to do about Sherlock was another matter. The thought of seeing him again made John want to scream and shout and cause damage to other people's belongings (mainly Sherlock's) but he was going to have to face it, to control himself, because the thought of not seeing him again… it was incorrigible. He had to see Sherlock, had to have his questions answered. Needed to see him again; check him for scars, repeatedly check his pulse, hear his voice, re-memorise his face…

Nothing could be worse now, than being left alone again.

John was muttering as he paced now, tersely running a hand through his hair and clenching and unclenching his fist. He thought of how worried Sherlock had looked. Sherlock had shown his feelings; let his mask slip, for all but the briefest of seconds.

John knew that it had never been a case of Sherlock not having emotions- it was just that to show said emotions, or to allow them to have any affect or bearing upon Sherlock's judgement would be to allow scope for doubt. And Sherlock never could stand doubting himself. If Sherlock let himself feel, his mind would be a little less organised; he'd become biased, rather than clear cut and steady as he wanted to be. John almost smiled to himself, thinking about it, but stopped himself short as the pain grazed at his stomach again like a razor blade.

When his eyes had recognised Sherlock, unchanged, standing tall and looking almost ashamed, his heart had leapt and pounded in John's chest as his mind processed what was happening. His joy had been so much he hadn't known how to cope with it and had been glad when the anger took over. But now…

Whatever Sherlock had to say, no matter how much he cared about Sherlock and had missed him while he had been 'gone', John just couldn't see things ever going back to that comfortable, open friendship that had once been. It hadn't been friendship really; it had been more than that- co-existing, perhaps. Just living together, contentedly. He had trusted Sherlock with his life. And he couldn't see that ever being the case again.

/

**I don't think I'm brilliant at John's POV, but I'll try and quickly follow this up with a Sherlock chapter soon. I had difficulty trying to convey the intense emotions that John would be feeling right now, mixed with his stability and rationality. But you know, let me know how I did, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks to all the reviewers and the many people who added this to their story alerts, it's really appreciated. – O. x**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5- Nature Boy

_John Watson- Mycroft's Apartment, Chelsea_

Despite his earlier assurances to himself that Mycroft did _not_ matter and perhaps Mycroft didn't quite deserve the swift and painful death that John now so wanted to bring to him, John found himself standing on the doorstep of Mycroft Holmes' white pillared Chelsea home, his finger hovering over the buzzer for Mycroft's apartment.

Trying to settle his grinding nerves, John fiercely jabbed the button and stepped back a little, restraining himself from his inner desire to pound at the doorbell until Mycroft came running to the door. Instead, as expected, a slim, pretty girl opened the door, recognised John and with the briefest of glances left and right down the street behind John, she ushered him into the house.

John loathed this place, with its antiques and heavy, Victorian furnishings. The wood panelling and thick patterned carpets were so _very _Mycroft and therefore, at this point, _entirely_ detestable. The sound of low jazz music was drifting down from a door at the top of the stairs that had been left slightly ajar. The apartment was 2 storeys and so large that it surpassed many working class families' houses. The other apartment was a studio flat in the loft that Mycroft _kindly_ leant out to young, good looking male students from Kings College, Imperial College and the other universities in London; something that no one ever spoke of.

Ignoring the girls whispered discouragement, John set off towards the stairs and the room from which the jazz was being emitted. Pushing the door further open, he strode in, back straight, military training kicking in and emotions buried, as they had been for the past 3 years, in an attempt to make his pain less evident.

"Mycroft." He almost barked the name, spat it out like a bad taste that was burning his tongue.

"Ah, John. So good to see you." Mycroft's air of companionship towards John made his skin crawl, the betrayal still fresh in his stomach, constricting his throat.

"Can't say the same for you, Holmes."

Mycroft sighed, pursing his lips as he rested his fingertips together in front of his face, one leg crossed over the other as he sat in his high backed arm chair, next to the juke box from which the jazz still floated through the room.

"Ah, so he was telling the truth. You have, indeed, been reunited with my dear brother Sherlock." He smiled sadly into his hands, his eyes on the floor. "You know, I'd started to stop believing his threats of telling you. He seemed so convincing every time and then, it would never come to be."

Ignoring that statement, John strode over to the window, eager to lay eyes on anything but Mycroft. After Sherlock had di- John shook himself; after Sherlock left, Mycroft had at first been a great source of comfort to John, whilst he was too grief ridden to really think things through. For the first 6 months, John had lived in a state of disbelief and shock, staying in the flat 24 hours a day, convinced that Sherlock would walk in the door at any point and refusing to speak to anyone but Mrs Hudson and Molly. Then, after 6 months, Mycroft had come to him, apologised for the part he had played in Sherlock's demise and promised to help John, for as long as he needed it. So, he had. Mycroft had provided John with money, with moral support and, every now and then, with companionship. Although not particularly similar to Sherlock, anyone with a similar level of unemotional intelligence was comforting to speak to, and so John and Mycroft often met for dinner or a walk, to discuss politics and current affairs. Looking back now, John felt so stupid; stupid for trusting someone so clearly without a shred of morals or remorse.

He turned back to Mycroft. "You knew. You knew, yet you watched me, at close quarters, suffer and grieve for 3 years." His voice wasn't loud, like he'd intended, it was quiet and accusing. He sounded broken, and he hated it. "How did you pull it off? Was it fun, a fun little distraction from the boredom of your job? Spending hours talking to me, all the while knowing that Sherlock was cosied up in his old apartment, courtesy of you?"

Mycroft met his eyes and shook his head slightly. "No, it wasn't fun, John. In fact, it was tiresome and frustrating, and I wanted to help you more, I really did. But then, last year you stopped speaking to me anyway. Your anger resurfaced. You ignored me at the bench, on the anniversary. I was going to tell you then, actually. But really, I could never find the words."

John growled, his eyes burning with anger, "That's bullshit." He stormed across the room to the door, "You can tell your conniving brother that I don't want to hear from him, or you, ever again." He banged the door with his fist, sending it slamming back against its hinges, into the wall, leaving a dent in the antique wallpaper. "You're both insane, absolutely fucking insane and I don't want to hear this crap anymore." He took a step forwards, "You wished you could tell me? You couldn't find the words? Bullshit, you did! The whole time, you just stood by, watching me break more and more every day, watching me try to live anything with a vague semblance of a life, completely alone and mourning for years and you just stood there, you-"

Mycroft stood up, wringing his hands in front of him, "John, I know. I know, I did all those things but I am sorry."

John laughed mirthlessly and shook his head vigorously, "Fuck off, you don't know the meaning of the word." With that, he turned tail and stormed from the room, thundering down the stairs and out of the front door.

The cold air hit him like a punch in the gut, but he embraced it, really, the cold, London weather one of the only constants in his life.

He wandered the streets for hours, trying to shake off the anger and resentment that hung like a dead weight around his neck. Mycroft was a bastard, Sherlock was a bastard; they were all bastards, mother fucking basta- He stopped still. He'd walked to Trafalgar Square- the beauty of London being that everything was so close together, with a spare couple of hours you could walk anywhere you wanted. And he was sure, sure as the day is long, that he'd just seen Sherlock, walking across the square, disappearing behind the foot of Nelson's Column. John tripped down the steps by the fourth plinth, the stairs he'd only just climbed before he'd glanced back and seen Sherlock. He ran to the base of the column, circled it and cursed quietly. He'd gone.

John steeled himself; it didn't matter he didn't want to see him again, anyway. As he'd said to Mycroft, he was done… But only yesterday, John had told himself that no matter what happened he couldn't bear to be left alone again. God, he was so up and down with emotions, he couldn't handle much more of this. He started as his phone rang. He glanced at the receiver and bit back another curse. Mrs Hudson.

As if he hadn't spoken to enough people he didn't want to speak to today. Flicking the receiver up, he answered the phone.

"What?"

"_John, dear? It's Mrs Hudson."_

"Yes, I know who it is." His voice was laced with hostility, which he was sure even _innocent _and_ lovely _Mrs Hudson would pick up on.

"_Oh, I see… Well, I was wondering if you'd like to come round for tea, dear. This afternoon. I mean, I could get some scones in and we could have a nice little catch up and-"_

"A catch up."

"_Yes, dear, a good chat, to clear the air and sort this whole mess out, I mean-"_

"It's a little more than a mess."

"_Well… well, yes dear but I mean-"_

John sighed; weary now with feeling so angry all the time. "You knew and you did nothing. You didn't help me and you didn't tell me. You, Sherlock, Mycroft, you all knew and you let me suffer. I can't forgive-"

"_Well, really, John. It wasn't like we did all this as some sort of practical joke. We were protecting you, dear. Gosh, I'd have thought you'd be more appreciative, Sherlock's hardly been living a fun life the past few years, bored out of his mind, shouting 'very not good' at himself and shooting chunks out of my lovely house!"_

John struggled to keep his voice level, aware that he was still in a public place, and that the tourists buzzing around him would be more than startled if he started screaming into his mobile phone.

"I'm sure life's been intensely difficult for you all. Sorry for the inconvenience."

"Oh John, he really wants to see you, you know. He doesn't know what to do with himself; he just wants to explain to you, much as he can. I mean he can't explain much, he's got to be careful, make sure that poor girl is kept out of it-"

With a jolt, John realised that he'd been right, in his musings the day before. When it came to working out exactly how Sherlock had managed to make it seem quite so realistic that he was dead and gone, his head smashed on the pavement, one factor seemed pretty damn obvious; Molly. It was her hospital, her territory. She must have helped. Tuning out Mrs Hudson's blathering, he shut his phone off and stalked off towards the taxi rank at Charing Cross station.


End file.
